To Carry On
by pathera
Summary: In the end, after the war is over, Hermione is left to pick up the pieces of her life when the person she loves most is gone. Hermione/Fred
1. Part I

A/N: Welcome one and all to yet another Fred/Hermione fic. This one, however, is not a one-shot (matter of fact, it's four chapters), is not humor, and is one of the few that I write in which Fred is actually dead. As a matter of fact, the story you are about to read is _not _the one I intended to write. I had intended to sit down and write a story in which Hermione is forced to tell everyone the truth about her relationship with Fred after his death. It was _supposed _to be a story of how their relationship began, progressed, and finally ended. That is _not _what it ended up as. There are still elements of what I had originally intended, but _To Carry On _became less about Hermione telling everyone the truth and more about a progression through grief. Forgive me if any of the characters are out of character, and forgive me for any grammatical errors. Or tense errors, I have a _huge _problem with switching tenses in the middle of things. Anyway, enjoy and leave a review if you'd like. It would be greatly appreciated!

Disclaimer: If only, if only, if only.

To Carry On

_I._

The world was gray, the clouds low-set and dark, a fine, misty rain covering everything. She knelt on the cold ground, shivering as the rain hit her bare skin and soaked through the fabric of her shirt. Her hair was plastered to her forehead, the rain turning her brown curls even darker.

Time seemed to suspend. She was aware of Ginny standing at a distance, her head bent, but she seemed far away. Everything seemed far away, everything except for the smooth marble stone in front of her.

She lifted a hand, feeling as if she was in slow motion, and her fingertips traced the letters engraved into the stone. Her hand dropped and she leaned forwards, pressing her lips to the cold marble gravestone, knowing she was crazy and not caring.

"I promised that we would come clean after the war." She said. Her voice was raspy, as though it hadn't been used in a long time. She was glad that Ginny was too far away to hear; she was only too aware that she was talking to a gravestone and she didn't need anyone else to witness the breakdown of her sanity. "I knew that you wanted to tell everyone." She half-smiled. "I knew that you hated keeping it a secret."

"Remember the last night? The night right before the battle. You held me in your arms." Her voice cracked; for a moment she imagined that she could feel his arms around her now, but the feeling was fleeting and gone and left her empty and alone. "And you said you loved me." She bent her head; water cascaded down her face, dripping from her chin, and not all of it came from the rain. "We promised that we would stop being a secret, once it was all over." She lifted her gaze.

For a moment—a moment that confirmed her insanity—she thought that she saw him, a little farther away, standing beneath an oak tree, beckoning her with a smile. She stared, her breath catching in her throat, staring as long as she could, afraid that he would disappear. She closed her eyes and when she opened them he was gone, and the world was gray and dark and bleak.

"We won't be a secret anymore, love. I'll tell them. I'll tell them everything. I won't keep you a secret any longer." She bowed her head again, murmuring a silent prayer. "I just wish that you were here to tell it with me." She brushed her hand over the stone, feeling the cold solidity and wishing that it was warm flesh.

"'Mione?" Ginny's voice said behind her; she jumped and turned, startled by the intrusion. "Are you ready?"

Slowly, Hermione Granger climbed to her feet. She looked at the gravestone one last time and turned away.

"Yeah." She said. Ginny smiled, but it was a painful kind of smile. The redhead placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Okay."

Together the two women walked away, through the rows of grave after grave, leaving behind the one that truly mattered.

_Here Lies_

_Frederick Gideon Weasley_

_Son, Brother, Beloved_

_April 1, 1978-May 2, 1998_

* * *

This chapter is the shortest, I should mention. Reviews?


	2. Part II

A/N: Alright, I definitely lied when I said that this fic runs four chapters. It's been a while since I actually wrote this and I had forgotten a little. It's actually _three _chapters, the longest of which is the one before you. This story runs less as a cohesive plot and more as a series of moments, particularly this chapter. This chapter is a series of interactions between Hermione and other characters, focusing on 'Mione and the progression of her grief, as I stated in the last chapter. Please forgive any characterization errors, as well as grammatical or spelling mistakes. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Why do I always forget these? Must be wishful thinking.

_II._

She found Mrs. Weasley in what had been his room, holding one of his sweaters close to her chest and crying in a lost kind of way. Not the loud sobs she was known for but a quiet, helpless crying.

Hermione pushed open the door enough to slip in and then closed it gently behind her, approaching the woman who was like a mother to her. Mrs. Weasley looked up and gave her a watery smile, hastily wiping away her tears.

"Hello, Hermione. Do you need something?"

Mutely she shook her head, stepping further into the room. She breathed in and was shocked to realize that she could _smell_ him. In this room, in this little corner of the world, it was like he was still there. Her eyes closed for a moment as she inhaled; she could imagine him right in front of her, so close that she could almost touch him, giving off that warm cinnamon scent.

"Hermione, dear?"

Her eyes snapped open and she stared at Mrs. Weasley, her lips trembling.

"I loved him." She whispered. "Do you know?" Her voice was faint and distant, as though she were speaking from a thousand miles away.

Mrs. Weasley stared at her.

"I loved him more than anything." She was losing the battle against tears; the older woman looked at her and then rose, stepping through the space separating them and wrapping her arms around her. The woman stroked her hair and held her tight.

"I know, dear. I know."

They stood in the middle of the room littered with his belongings, his scent, his essence. They stood in the middle of the place where he had been and held onto each other, trying to fill the hole his absence had left them with.

* * *

"Hermione?"

She lifted her gaze from the page that she had been staring at for ten minutes without reading a single word. When she saw who stood in the doorway she closed her eyes for the briefest moment, fighting down the wave of fresh grief. She heard him shift in the doorway.

"I'm sorry."

She tried to smile. "What are you apologizing for, George?"

"For looking exactly like him. I know that I can't change how I look and I didn't choose to look like this and I wouldn't change it but…everyone looks at me and sees _him_. Mum still can't look at me without breaking into tears. I-I can't even look in the mirror anymore."

Hermione shook her head little. "Don't be sorry, George. You keep his image alive." She tucked one leg beneath her. "And you don't look _exactly _like him. The differences are minute, but they're there. His eyes had a touch more gray than yours, and the freckles across his nose were fainter. He had a mole beneath his left ear too, which you don't have."

"He _had _a left ear." George said, a little smile on his face as his hand touched the hole on the side of his head lightly. "You really loved him."

She lowered her gaze. "Yes." She whispered. "I did."

He stepped into the room and approached; she couldn't help but tense up a little bit. There was part of her that wanted to just launch herself at him, because he had _his _face, and _his _body; she held that part of herself in strict control, because George was _not _Fred and never would be. He pulled something out of his pocket and her gaze followed it, the breath catching in her throat when she saw the small black velvet box.

"I found this at the bottom of one of his drawers." He said, in a quiet voice, handing her the box. She took it with trembling hands. "I knew he'd been acting funny for a few weeks, nervous especially when he was around you and his hand kept going to his pocket. I think he was carrying it around, waiting for the right time."

She opened the box and stared at the ring. Set in gold the princess-cut diamond was flanked by two pear-shaped rubies. It was the essential Gryffindor ring.

It was beautiful.

With trembling fingers she drew it from the velvet confines and slipped it over her finger.

It was a perfect fit.

"He would want you to have it now."

She nodded, her throat constricting around the lump lodged there. George made a tactical retreat, leaving her in the darkening room with a book lying abandoned on the floor and a ring glittering on her finger.

* * *

"Ginny told me."

She didn't look up at the sound of Harry's voice, didn't lift her head from the pillow or tear her gaze from the perfectly blank ceiling above her head. She heard him step into her room, walking towards her.

"She didn't want to betray your trust," he continued, "but she thought that I needed to know." She felt the bed sink beneath his weight as he settled on the end. "'Mione?"

"I lied to you." She said. Her tone wasn't broken, wasn't filled with grief and tears, wasn't angry or accusing; it wasn't sad or guilty or regretful. It was empty.

"It's alright. I understand."

"I lied to you." She repeated. "I've been lying to you for years. Did Ginny tell you that? How long we kept it a secret?"

"Two years."

Finally she sat up, facing him. "I lied to you for two years. You should hate me." Her eyes stung; now her voice was full of emotion, raw with pain and fear and blind anger. "You should be angry at me. You should yell and curse me and be hurt. I didn't trust you. I betrayed you. I lied to you and I kept secrets from you and—."

She broke off as his arms went around her and he pulled her close.

"But I'm not angry." He said. "I'm not angry and I don't hate you. You're my sister, 'Mione, and I love you." She felt the wave of tears break over her and she sobbed into his chest.

"I'm sorry." He whispered as he held her and rocked her; as she wept in his embrace. "I would take the pain away if I could. I'd turn back time and I'd make sure none of it ever happened. But I can't. I wish I could, 'Mione. I really wish I could."

She hated that she was crying _again_ but she couldn't stop. She let him hold her, let him tell her how much he was sorry and how much he wished he could help.

She wished too.

* * *

The whole room seemed dimmer.

Closing her eyes she could remember Weasley dinners before the war. In those memories the room was full of light and the table stretched forever and was packed with shade after shade of endless red hair mixing with the varying shades of the "adopted" family. In those memories the room was anything but quiet, filled with loud chattering and hearty laughter, muted only when their mouths were too full to carry on conversation.

Now the room was dimmer, as though the light had been dulled. The table didn't stretch forever; it seemed small and compact, always with that single missing spot, the one that no one would ever fill. It was _his _spot, and no amount of time would erase that. Now the room was quiet, the silence broken only by the quiet, polite murmurings of perfect strangers trying to ease the awkwardness.

And the laughter, on the rare occasions that it still visited, was stilted and unnatural.

Before everyone had sat straight-backed, their eyes roaming around; now she sat with her head bent over her plate, not daring to glance up, and neither George nor Mrs. Weasley would meet any other gaze either.

She shoveled a forkful of pot roast into her mouth, tasting only ash. It was the same pot roast as before the war, but there was something missing from it. Her taste buds registered only the texture and the dullness; she tasted nothing but sorrow.

She reached for her glass, taking a swig of pumpkin juice to chase the taste out of her mouth. As she placed the glass back onto the table the light caught her hand, and the diamond on her finger sparkled, throwing little darts of light across the dark surface.

She knew, without even glancing at him, that Ron's gaze was settled on her ring finger. She knew from the catch of his breath in the back of his throat, that involuntary little gasp. She raised her gaze and saw his eyes narrow, staring at the circle of gold. She watched as a little furrow formed on his forehead. Glancing around the table she saw that she wasn't the only one who had noticed. Ginny sat frozen in her chair, eyes darting between the ring and Hermione's face. The girl's elbow jabbed Harry in the side and he jumped, before looking.

"Hermione, what's that on your finger?" Ron said, his eyes never leaving the ring. Hermione pulled her hand back a little, almost protectively. She suddenly found herself at the center of attention, every gaze focused on her. She fought down the panicked urge to cover the ring and brush it off.

She had _promised_ that she would stop hiding. It didn't matter that the promise was made to a dead man. It was also a promise she had made to herself.

"It's a ring, Ron." She said, startling herself a little. The voice didn't sound like hers; it sounded…_stronger_. It sounded like the voice of the person who had existed before the war, before everything. She rubbed the side of the ring with her middle finger, taking comfort from the cool solidity of it. "An engagement ring."

His gaze snapped up to meet hers. She saw the myriad of emotion swirl through his eyes, reading each emotion as it passed; confusion, the fleeting moment of sadness, anger, confusion, anger again, before finally settling on some mix of both anger and confusion.

"From who?"

It was as if her vocal chords locked. She parted her lips, sucked in a tiny breath, and couldn't speak. She couldn't say a single word.

She pulled her gaze from him, looking down the table. Ginny and Harry met her gaze squarely, offering her silent support. From where she sat she could see their hands intertwined beneath the table. She let her gaze travel farther, like a leaf tugged onwards by the current of a stream. Bill, his face a mess of scars, stared at her, a silent kind of knowing in his eyes. Charlie, who inclined his head the tiniest bit, a bitter smile on his lips. Mr. Weasley, with a dawning light in his eyes. Mrs. Weasley, whose gaze held only gentle strength.

George, who finally lifted his gaze and met hers, with eyes just a shade too blue, who did nothing more than _look _at her.

It was that moment that she realized her secret—_their _secret—wasn't as secret as they had thought. Except for Ron, they _knew_.

The knowledge filled her and coursed through her like a transfusion coursing through a hospital patient, renewing her strength.

For the first time in a long time, she didn't feel like crying.

She met Ron's gaze again, her lips tugging into an almost smile. "From the person I loved. From the person I would have spent the rest of my life with. From Fred."

He gaped, mouth opening and closing like a fish, his jaw going slack. She glanced around the table again, quickly, and saw the smile on Mrs. Weasley's face. Just the tiniest smile, but it was there.

"Well," Charlie said, speaking for the first time that night, "it's about _bloody _time."

The giggle welled up in her throat, sticking there for a moment before roaring out. Moments later the room filled with sound, with laughing, honest to God _laughing_. If there were tears mixed in with the guffaws and the giggles and the snorts it was okay.

Because, for just a moment, it was like the world was whole again.

And the room seemed brighter.

* * *

A/N 2: The next chapter concludes everything and wraps up the loose ends. It should be posted soon. Reviews?


	3. Part III

A/N: And we come full circle. Thanks to my reviewers and any of you lurkers for reading. This is the completion of _To Carry On. _Figure that this scene takes place about one to two months after the first chapter, and hopefully this one leaves you with a much happier, if bittersweet, feeling than the first chapter. Enjoy!

_III._

This time, when she knelt in front of the gravestone, it wasn't raining. The ground was slightly dewy beneath her, soaking through the denim of her jeans, but the sky above her was clear, touched with rose pink and streaks of tangerine as the sun began to climb above the horizon.

"Hello, love." She whispered. Her voice was strong and whole, not fragmented, not raspy, not tear-stricken, not a moment away from shattering into heavy sobs. She traced a finger over his name, shivering a little at the feel of the cold stone against her skin.

"That's a good way to get grass stains, you know."

She closed her eyes.

"I'm insane."

She felt a touch like a cold whisper of wind on her shoulder; opening her eyes she tilted her head back and looked up. The sunrise spread out behind him, touching him with crimson and tangerine, highlighting every facet of his features.

"You're not real."

He quirked his eyebrows at her and gave her a lopsided grin. "Why Miss Granger, I'm shocked. You, not believing something standing right in front of you?"

"I don't put much stock in illusions created by my desires." She retorted. "I saw you before, by the oak tree, and you disappeared then, just as you will now." Even as she spoke she didn't tear her gaze away from him for a moment, drinking in the familiar sight of him as if it was the ambrosia of the gods.

He tsked, grinning playfully. "Such a skeptic, as usual."

She stood, absentmindedly brushing off the dirt the clung to her jeans before folding her arms. "You being here can mean only three things. That you're a ghost, you're an illusion, or I'm insane."

"You're not insane, love."

"And my Fred wouldn't become a ghost. Which means you are an illusion."

"I wouldn't become a ghost?"

"No." She said, her chin tilting higher. "You wouldn't."

He smiled. "You're right. I wouldn't. But I'm not an illusion either, 'Mione." His voice saying her nickname sent tiny shivers racing up and down her spine; in that moment she decided that if she was dreaming she never wanted to wake up. "I'm…," he frowned a little. "How can I put it? I'm a shade, I suppose. I'm not a ghost, but a little part of me is still tied here. I could leave, of course, if I wanted to."

"Then why don't you?"

"Because there's a few things I need to say to you before I do."

She tore her gaze away from him, looking at the long rows of graves stretched out all around them. "Like what, Fred?" She whispered. "What's so important that you can't move on?" She closed her eyes. "And what can you say that will make it any better?"

"I can't make the hurt go away, 'Mione. I can't fix a broken heart. But it _will _get better. Give it time, and the pain will ease."

"But never stop." She said, her eyes still closed. She let his voice break over her like a wave, internalizing the sound, silently praying that it would never stop.

"I see you got my ring."

Her eyes popped open and she met his gaze; his lips were quirked into one of his warm, slightly crooked grins. He looked so _real_, standing in front of her, his hands shoved into his pockets, the collar of his shirt popped, his hair carefully styled so that it looked as if he had rolled out of bed.

"I must say, I never quite imagined my proposal actually coming from _George_." His grin invited her to laugh along; against her will her lips curled upwards the tiniest bit. "I was waiting for the perfect moment, you know. I picked that out months before, just carried it around in my pocket, fiddling with it, looking at you and imagining what I would say and how you would react. I was trying to pluck up my courage; trying to have it be the _perfect _moment, the moment you would never forget." He gave a little shrug. "Too bad it never came."

She looked at the diamond glittering on her finger and closed her eyes, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from crying.

"I can't change the past, love." He said. "I can't make myself any less dead. I would if I could. I would sweep you into my arms and I would ask you to marry me and our future would be filled with fights and laughter and red-headed menaces, ones with my pranking skills and your intelligence. Hogwarts would live in fear of them." He laughed a little; the sound rang through her and she curled her fist, her nails biting into the palm of her hand. "But that future is gone, now, 'Mione."

"I know." The whispered words pained her but she forced them out. Tears squeezed out of the corners of her tightly closed eyes. "Why are you torturing me, Fred? Why?"

His touch was like frost upon her cheek; the shock of it forced her eyes open.

"I love you." His words were simple and honest, and she could read his heart in his eyes, in the unfading smile on his lips. "I always will, and nothing will ever change that."

Her lips refused to part; her lungs refused to inflate.

"But you have to let me go." There was a part of her that screamed inwardly, crying out that _No! She would never! _but that part was silenced when he continued. "You're _alive_, Hermione. _Alive_. That's a gift, one that you can't waste. You can't spend your life wishing and crying." His thumb traced a tear, leaving a cold trail against her skin. "You can't spend your life in a graveyard, talking to a gravestone. This is where the dead belong, and you need to live. You have to let me go."

"I don't want to."

"But you need to."

She shook her head. "I can't let you go, Fred. I _can't_. It _hurts_. I'm not going to do anything stupid, like kill myself, if that's what you think. I'll live, but I'm not letting you go. I'm not going to forget."

He tilted her head. "You, forget? Blasphemy." He said, with one of his teasing smiles. "And I know you're not going to kill yourself. But 'Mione, there's living, and then there's _living_. You aren't really living if you walk around like a ghost, crying all the time, visiting graveyards. There are things you want to do, the things you dreamed of doing. You want to write a book and you want to teach at Hogwarts and you want to travel the world. _Do _those things."

"I don't have to let you go in order to do those things." She said.

He smiled at her like a parent smiling at the fantasy of a child. "Yes you do. Because if you're carrying me around with you everywhere, wallowing in your misery, you're not experiencing everything to the fullest."

She frowned at him, folding her arms. "I don't _want _to." She said, like a petulant child.

"We could argue all day, my love. You _have _to. If you won't do it for yourself, then do it for me. Move on. Not now, not tomorrow, not even next week. I don't expect you to wake up one morning and go 'Fred who?'. It's a process, of moving on, of letting me go. But you need to do it. The pain will ease. Don't be afraid to keep living without me. Don't be afraid to carry on."

She wished that his arms would go around her, that he would hold her the way he had when he had been alive, but he didn't.

"Write a book, 'Mione. Teach at Hogwarts. Travel the world. Fall in love again. Get married. Have kids. _Live_. I'll always be with you." He snorted, laughing a little. "I sound like a bloody greeting card."

She shook her head, smiling a little.

"I'll always be there, love. And we'll see each other again. That's a promise. But in the meantime…let go."

She closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them again.

"I love you."

He smiled.

"I love you too."

He leaned forwards and pressed his lips to hers. She felt as though she were touching her lips to the surface of water—_there_ but so easily broken, as though he were about vanish with the slightest pressure.

When she opened her eyes he was gone, leaving her with the feeling of ice on her lips.

For a moment she stood in front of his grave, turning her face towards the horizon and letting the warmth of the newly-risen sun wash over her.

Then she turned away, without a backward glance.

It was time to live again.

* * *

Reviews are love. Always remember that.


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